


Nice

by thethrillof



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Fluff, Kissing, Other, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof
Summary: Hollow ponders descriptive words and Myla. Also, there are some kisses.
Relationships: Hollow Knight/Myla
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Nice

Myla is always…very nice. This designation doesn’t truly do her justice.

_Nice_ alone seems too small a term to encapsulate the endless happiness in her countenance, how she always runs to catch up with their siblings and greets them all cheerfully, or how she always makes a point to sing to the Hollow Knight despite their own glaring inability to join along or properly indicate that they enjoy it.

They don’t have other words for it but _kind,_ and this was given to Kindly Isma. Myla and Isma are not that alike. Isma held a quiet melancholy that tinges all memories they have left of her, which Myla seems to rarely fall into.

Therefore, ‘nice’ is the title the Hollow Knight must assign instead.

(The fact they can use the _same_ term for multiple others does not occur to them.)

And Myla is particularly nice when the Hollow Knight has days of pain.

They are not alone in this; she, too, has days of lying dully on her side, lost in a haze of suffering, and they spend these curled around her to protect her from any that try to come near. The Infection that ravaged her insides was still caused by their own limits, and they cannot let this go, no matter how often they are told this was unfair to them.

She reached to grip their hand when they tried to leave, those first few times they were there. This was not an order, she told them, their siblings told them, but a tightness in their chest kept them there, and pulls them back to where she rests when she is nearby other times.

She cannot do such a thing in return, and they would loathe to trap her by their side. So she does leave, particularly at Hornet’s insistence to privacy checking on them. 

But Myla always returns later, humming little tunes that don't hammer against the inside of their mask as most noise does.

Presently, they surface from the haze of pain they’ve been locked into for several days, as well as from the piles of blankets that they have been wrapped in for nearly the entire duration. They cannot quite recall what began it; the pain sometimes rises despite any attempts at mitigation, but rarely with such swiftness. They may have fallen, but whether it was before or after is unclear. Perhaps it was simply poor timing.

Myla looks up from her spot across the room. The whittling tool in her hands drop to the makeshift bed she's resting on, hopping forward to settle on the edge of their own nest.

This must be why she was on their mind during their agony; she is one of the better things they focus on, and are again grateful for her presence.

“Good morning! It’s nice t-t-to see you moving again!”

Whatever they had done, however long they had been lost, must have been particularly concerning this time. Their arm stretches clumsily, curling their hand over her head in acknowledgement and apology.

Rather than the more common leaning into their hand, she moves towards their head. Their hand protectively keeps cradling her, though they’re not attempting to pull her forward, and taps her face—the edge of her mouth—against the center of their mask.

They reach up when she pulls away to feel where she had touched. Nothing seems to be there. It's not something she’s done before. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, d-d-do you not like—want any kisses?”

They are still unused to being asked such things, of wants and likes or _not_ wanting and _dis_ liking. Pondering this takes a few moments, and Myla stays where she is, awaiting patiently. They do not feel pressured by her watching them as their head settles back down.

_Kisses._ This is something they had witnessed rarely, though they can strain their mind back to memories of catching sight of a kiss between the King and Lady, and overhearing warm tales of from Ze’mer. A token of a loving partnership.

It had not been uncomfortable; she had been gentle, and Myla is nice, and affection is pleasant to receive. She has not done so to them or anyone else they’ve seen before, and the idea of it being from her, only to them, feels— _feels,_ and they only catch their mind on this for a moment, they are allowed to feel, just as she—a strong sort of satisfying. Though that seems wrong, too. Satisfaction but stronger. A secret, but not a secret. They know words are important, but still must take time to discover the full capability of them, even in their freed thoughts. 

But their lack of words, unspoken as they must be, are not going to answer Myla's query.

No, they do not _not_ like kisses. Or at least, not the one from her.

…Learning such things involves repeating the experience. (Unless it is terribly unpleasant, in which they have been told they should not.) The pain hasn't let go of them quite enough for much movement for writing or wide gestures.

They paw lightly at their mask again, though they do not allow themselves to hope she understands what they mean, or that she will choose to once more—

—but she does. Her soft laugh is nearly as nice as she leans again carefully, pressing another to the center of their mask. And another, to the bottom edge. And another softly by the shattered part above their eye, and another by their horn, and another, and another…

Alarm spikes when she half-falls against their horn with a high noise. It settles once they realize it isn’t her own pain, nor a burst of tears, but laughter.

Oh. 

It strikes the Hollow Knight like a blow from her pick-claw that she may find them _nice_ too. _Nice_ enough to give rise to laughter, just for the pleasure of giving them many kisses.

They give her their arm to rest on before she falls.

Their lack of a mouth has not stopped them with before; she knows exactly what they are doing when they press the bottom of their mask just between her eyes.


End file.
